


Glimpses

by Fuguestate



Category: Watchmen
Genre: AU, Drabbles, Watchmen Kinkmeme, captcha prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-02
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-09 19:22:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 2,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fuguestate/pseuds/Fuguestate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various captcha drabbles and comment fics from the Watchmen-verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. commuter Mr

She sees them all, depending on the day.

Midnight to three there are the drunks who don't want to go home yet. The happy drunks are all right, but they don't often have much money left by then. The angry ones, the ones dumped by girlfriends or the losers of fights - they're the worst. She counts herself lucky if the marks fade quickly.

Two to six is when the truckers come by on their way to pick up or drop off whatever. Sometimes all they want is someone to talk to, a pathetic substitute for the wife left behind. Other times she feels like G-18 on some travel bingo card. Lots of them have speed, though, which is a nice bonus.

From seven to eleven she can maybe get some sleep. Or eat. Both, if she's feeling ambitious.

Lunch hour onward is busy. The white collars typically start things off, sneaking off for their "meetings" and "appointments". The blue collars come later, wanting a pick-me-up before going out with the guys, or back to the ball and chain at home. Then come the drunks on their rounds to start the night shift.

All of them come to her, sooner or later. Except _him_.

He should be comical; dated Dick Tracy look and that crazy black and white mask on a guy shorter than she is. He should be, but he's not. She's seen what he does to people - more than once and from far to close for comfort. She knows better than to hang around when he's near.

She's seen and done a lot - been on the wrong end of fists and knives, cigarettes and broken bottles. She knows the inside of a jail cell and the emergency room as well as she knows her own bed. She can hold her own, and she doesn't scare easily.

But only an idiot would want to be around for Rorschach's commute.


	2. the doorways

"Geddown, kid!" A shotgun blast comes from in front of him and the thug he hadn't seen behind him goes down when the rubber bullet takes him high in the chest. He rolls, getting a brief glimpse of the Comedian's combat-cheerful face and dives to

 

gather up the impossibly small life into his arms even though his hands - the ones that can manipulate the tiniest circuits with ease - feel far too large and clumsy for something so fragile and he's scared half to death. Laurie smiles up at him in exhausted triumph, and she's never looked so

 

crushingly dull, but this is what his father wanted and he's good at it. This bank was his father's legacy to him, and the best chance he'd have at a solid career for supporting a family someday, so he runs it now with the utmost

 

anxiety after hearing his friend's reaction. He doesn't know anything at all about this character, and a comic book movie? God, this could be great or this could be horrible, but either way this story's got some serious fans who will

 

burn the place down. That's all he can think to do after they found what was left of that little girl in the stove, in the dogs' mouths. He watches Rorschach hand the (_monsterthingmonster_) a hacksaw, sees the confusion cross the (_thing_)'s face and feels his own features stretch into a

 

delighted grin as she pulls back on the yoke and feels the airship climb effortlessly into the clouds and beyond. She lets out a triumphant whoop to the stars shining above her and wonders for a moment if this is anything like how motherhood feels. She pats the console with a loving hand - she's so proud of

 

"Daniel?"

He wakes with a violent start and looks into a familiar scowl made a bit deeper from concern. A strong hand offers a gentle touch to his shoulder.

"All right?"

"Yeah." He takes a deep breath and rolls into the embrace that's offered while his heart slows. He smiles as reality solidifies around him again and runs a hand through his love's hair in reassurance. "Just - crazy dreams."


	3. illness chides

It's his own fault, and he knows it.

Dan caught the bug last week and Rorschach had still pushed him to patrol. Criminals don't care if you're sick. They won't slack off just because you're not feeling well. Dan had done his best, suppressing coughs and snuffles through stakeouts and breathing through his mouth when his nose got too stopped up.

It made him a little slower and frayed his temper to a point that he may have used more force than was his wont, but that was all right. The reek of menthol and the litter of kleenex on Archie's floor became just another testament to Nite Owl's dedication.

He wasn't sympathetic toward his partner through any of it, because that wasn't what Nite Owl needed. What he needed was to stay strong, to not let his guard down, and to know that his partner still had his back as they went out every night.

Now he suppresses yet another sneeze and is at least thankful his nose hasn't started running (yet). His throat alternates between burning and feeling like he swallowed sandpaper.

Nite Owl, now almost completely recovered, keeps his eyes on Archie's controls and doesn't even twitch at the undignified sound he knows he just made.

He just hands him the box of tissues without a word.


	4. new engulfed

He can't breathe. Can't convince his lungs to fill, or to release. Air shudders in the in-between of his muscles' indecision, finally sobbing out of him in a rush while his fingers twitch in confusion, wanting to clench, wanting to latch onto something but (_afraid_) uncertain as to what, or where.

No one has ever...

Eyes hold him, pin him in place as he teeters on the edge of standing, falling, as his mind stutters to a halt at the simple, unexpected sensation of hands reaching past layers of (_defenses_) fabric to skate the gentlest of fingers down his sides.


	5. birth minutia

"What? What did I do?"

Daniel is following him down the stairs, past the Owlship, catches up with him in the tunnel.

"Please, Rorschach, I don't understand what's made you so upset?"

The distress is genuine; he can hear it. He stops, but does not turn around. Daniel is wise and does not touch him.

"Prying, Daniel. Multiple times now."

"Because I asked you where you're from?" Bewilderment now, layered on top of the distress. Either he truly doesn't understand or he is much better at lying than he seemed to be.

"And eye color. And family. And habits." It's obvious their partnership can't continue.

Wh- Rorschach, that wasn't prying, I was just... trying to get to know you, just a little! You're my partner, we watch each other's backs - and hell, I _like_ you! You're my friend, that's what friends _do_!"

A small sliver of doubt slips in and his step falters. Daniel's voice is still ringing true.

_'That's what friends do'_.

He wouldn't know.


	6. huskier to

"Always. It feels like always."

The blood is slowing, but the coppery fear-taste is still burning the back of his throat and he can't stop pressing his fingers to the pulse at his partner's neck to make sure it's still there.

"I couldn't tell you. I didn't know if -"

They have close calls all the time. Just last week there was that katiehead with a gun... They risk their lives and think nothing of it, just concentrating on the takedown. They could have been killed any number of times by now.

"Can you hear me?"

He's fighting tears, and it makes him angry. They can't go to a hospital. All this work they do, all this _work_...

"I wasn't honest with you. With myself. I'm sorry."

Breaths flutter against his ear.

"I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry."


	7. drive repealed

Of course it was the little Roche girl who broke the stalemate. The police riots had been ugly, fueling the fire against vigilantes and getting the Keene Act pushed through Congress, but there had still been resistance here and there. Even the news media, who'd been all too eager to focus on the lawlessness caused by NYPD's absence, couldn't keep an entirely confident tone when they quoted Senator Keene's assurances that "America has spoken, and we are listening."

Her parents didn't want her to get involved. She was only eight years old, after all, and she still awoke screaming from nightmares. But once her school showed the Senate's PSA in her class, there was no stopping her.

Every day she could be seen on her street corner - A childish likeness of Rorschach dominated a posterboard sign that she brandished like a shield which proclaimed in large, careful block letters, "Bring him back."

People still remembered what happened. No one laughed, or tried to stop her - not even as HUAC was doing its level best to destroy what was left of vigilantism's reputation with tales of innocents harmed, of depravities hidden and the dangers to John Q. Public.

Her mother joined her, eventually, after a bitter quarrel with her husband. A few other children joined in as well with placards of their own, and enough of them stuck with it that the news finally decided it was worth talking about.

Once she appeared in a Walter Cronkite interview, it was all over. Her earnest little voice asserting "He saved me, I would have died!" became the clarion call for countless grassroots movements who suddenly found it in themselves to unite into one massive group - one that suddenly outnumbered the "majority" who had put the Keene Act in place.

It was amazing how quickly evidence of graft and coercion among city government was unearthed, and how many people came forward with stories of giving anti-vigilante evidence to HUAC under duress.

The Act was repealed after a mere nine months, and Senator Keene - who some said was acting as a puppet the whole time - faded into relative obscurity and did not run for re-election.

When asked for a comment, Adrian Veidt - the only vigilante to have willingly shed his mask before the Keene Act - only said, "We must all act according to our conscience."


	8. weined from

The brownstone was ringing with curses, thunks and clatters in a path from the still-vibrating dresser drawers in the bedroom all the way down into the basement. Dan, well aware that anything he said at this moment would be met with sharp-tongued scorn or outright hostility, chose to maintain his strategic position half-hidden in the shadows of the study where he'd buried himself in a prospectus for a raptor facility upstate. He'd endured days of this already - they all had, really - and he was running out of ideas.

Walter briefly looked up when Laurie stormed down the stairs past Archie, his hand pausing in the notes he was taking as she kicked a box of spare parts out of her way.

"What?" She rounded on him, fists already clenching.

"Problem, Laurel?"

"Don't give me that fucking look - this is driving me nuts and you know it!"

"Was your own choice to-"

"I know, goddammit!" He actually blinked at her, but she was past noticing as she set the punching bag in her sights. "It's only the thousandth time I've tried to quit and I swear to god every time it gets worse!" She set to pounding the bag with all her strength, her fists and feet jangling it violently on its chain. Her perception narrowed to the satisfying slap of flesh against vinyl and the sway of the bag from each hit. The burn in her limbs was like the burn she wanted in her lungs right now, fueling her anger and disgust into jaw-clenching two-fisted attacks until movement at her side brought her wheeling around in an automatic attack stance.

Walter stood, implacably still in the face of her breathless fury. Slowly he looked from her to the wobbling bag and then back again, seeming as he did to come to a decision. Expression hardening, he took a deliberate step forward. "Laurel. Understandable that you-"

"Oh spare me," she sneered, moving to loom over him in exactly the way he hated. "Mister 'I've never had a chemical dependence' offering a pep talk? Don't make me laugh!"

His mouth thinned and she braced with a giddy rush of anticipation for the knock-down-drag-out that was coming. _Do it. Come on..._

But he just looked at her, and quietly continued. "Laurel. You should know me well enough to know I'm not going to offer empty platitudes. You got yourself into this situation, and it's only right that you get yourself back out of it." His hand rose to her shoulder and she could only gawp at him. "I've seen you take down multiple opponents unarmed. You've endured broken bones, torn ligaments and gunshots without flinching. You can function for days without food or sleep and still be ready to fight at a moment's notice. You are _better_ than this."

Releasing her, Walter stepped back and returned to his place at the workbench as though nothing had happened. His pencil was picked up, and he resumed scanning newspapers for possible leads for their next outing. A hand over his brought his gaze back around.

Laurie's gaze was soft, her face still flushed behind her tangled, sweat-soaked hair. Bringing her hands up to cup Walter's face, she placed the gentlest of kisses on his lips.

"Damn you," she whispered, and headed silently back up the stairs.


	9. Insights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A study in Rorschach.

**Silence**

Noise is a constant. Organic, fabricated, rhythmic, chaotic. Steps on the stairs outside the door - stomping, running, shuffling, stumbling. Voices, all the time, at all hours. Shouting. Laughing. Crying. Cursing. Screaming. Fists and chairs and headboards against walls. Water groaning and knocking through pipes. Wind and rain and street noise seeping through windows and past open doors. Floorboards and walls popping and creaking with age and movement. Vermin scavenging. Radios. Record players. Doors.

His dreams, when he has them, are mercifully silent.

 

**Here Comes the Rain**

Rain cleanses nothing here. What it does do is wipe away the layers of prevarication that people insist on constructing. It brings out the truth of personalities, dissolving false courtesies and empty promises - the longer a person stands in rain, the more honest he will become. It does the same for the city, eliminating the garish colors and deceptive grays that gloss over flaws, distract from the true nature and purpose of things. Only the stark contrast of light and dark remains, pointing the way for those who care to look.

 

**Slips And Tangles**

A hand on the shoulder is all right, but only during patrol and contact must not linger. Handshakes are safe, but must be kept businesslike. All other physical contact must be in the context of battle or treating injury.

Shop talk is fine. Slang is tolerated, but swearing is frowned upon. Personal details are not welcomed. Sex and politics are very bad topics. 

Expression of physical discomfort will be ignored at best, criticized at worst. Injuries must not be acknowledged until off-duty, and must be addressed in as workmanlike a manner as possible. Anaesthetic and drugs are to be avoided. Hospitals are out of the question.

Offers of a place to sleep can result in disappearances for days. Offers of food must be presented in the context of avoiding waste and/or dealing with an unexpected excess. Offers of coffee or (occasionally) other soft drinks are acceptable, with a minimum of small talk (see guidelines above).

Discipline is valued, as is intelligence. Honesty is a requirement. Tact is not. Approval is not given lightly, though always sincerely. Loyalty is absolute, but unforgiving.

A decision, once made, will not be un-made. All actions must be taken with this in mind.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5-minute comment fics inspired by song titles.


End file.
